


All Alright

by Phae98



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, John is a Saint, M/M, Non-Consensual, Physical Abuse, Protective Mycroft, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue, Revised Version, Scared Sherlock, Scars, Top John Watson, Torture, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:10:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phae98/pseuds/Phae98
Summary: “John!” he screams, hoping they will hear him. He sees the lights moving, coming closer. The noise of a helicopter, somewhere.He falls, tripping, and suddenly it’s impossible to get up again. He drags himself on, breathless, dirt and grass on his face. But time is over. And he can't take it anymore.“John...” he whispers.And then he sees him, and it must be a dream or something similar, but maybe it's just real: those blue eyes. His blue eyes.





	1. Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> \--> This is my tumblr **[](https://giuliawithag.tumblr.com/)**[, follow me if you like. I've recently seen my former account to be deleted and I'm trying to gain back my followers, it would be extremely appreciated!](https://giuliawithag.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> This story is divided into two parts: the first chapter focuses on the events that occur while Sherlock is being held captive, while the second one focuses on the aftermath of these events and on the relationship between Sherlock and John.  
> If you are disturbed by rape, rape aftermath, violence and torture elements, I strongly suggest you not to read any further. It's alright, and there are so many beautiful stories here on Ao3!
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: This is a revised version of All Alright. The original one can still be found among my other works, it was badly written and grammatically lacking. When I first wrote it, it was intended to be in Italian and then I tried to translate it into English. I'm not a native speaker, which means that in this new version you may still find some mistakes. Some sentences are probably always going to sound a bit odd, but this is because the Italian construction of sentences is very different from the English, both in terms of grammar and of the rhythm of the prose, and I didn't want to distort too much what I originally wrote. You're very welcome to give me suggestions regarding the story or making me aware of mistakes, it would be really helpful and appreciated. A special thanks to @brage who first helped me with the revision)
> 
> Leave a comment or a kudos if you liked my work, it means the world to me!

_It may be this time tomorrow_  
_or maybe today_  
_It is not right_  
_Now it's better_  
_Now we'll know_  
_Now he'll know what I have done_  
_I'm sitting with you_  
_Sitting in silence_  
_Listening to birds_  
_It feels like home_

**All Alright, Sigur Ros**

 

# Ashes

### Part one

  
Sherlock is choking. Everything is dark, and there’s silence all around him. And silent are his hands that aren't playing the violin anymore, only scratching themselves under the rough rope.   
There's silence everywhere, even inside of him. Even between his thoughts.  
Sherlock has always loved the silence, it has always preserved him from himself, it has been a trusted comrade and a discrete advisor. A nocturn lover in not-so-gentle nights. A lover easy to domesticate, or to tame. Easy to understand and to handle.  
Sherlock has always loved it, but not this time. This time the silence is just sorrow, it's just purplish bruises on his snowy and naked skin, exposed, terribly available.  
  
It was a case, he remembers. One of many. One of the easy ones. He went alone, of course he went alone. He wouldn't have bothered John for anything less than a seven-point case. At least.  
And he fell, like an amateur. After having spent two years destroying the world's biggest criminal network, he fell like just anyone. They didn’t kill him, unless they actually did and he’s in some sort of hell, but Sherlock is not so inclined to consider this. They spoke about a ransom, after beating him so hard he almost passed out. Almost, he forced himself to remain conscious because it was necessary to listen. Ransom could mean just two things, both correct: ransom meant keeping him alive, at least for a while, and especially ransom meant Mycroft. And, consequentially, it meant John.  
Sherlock has never been one for hope, it isn't rational, it doesn't help to think, it gets it wrong. It isn't countable, or quantifiable. But this time hoping it does, and it takes the form of John's eyes, John's voice, John's touch.

  
_He will tell him, one day._  
_But not today._

  
He's awakened by sweaty hands running on his body, he closes his eyes and says nothing. He thinks about John, and says nothing.  
He remains silent when the last piece of cloth tears and leaves his skin exposed, he remains silent when someone or something pushes him to the ground, hard, his face pressed against the filthy floor, hot fluid that wets his dark curls and he really doesn't want to know what it is.  
He remains silent because he needs to preserve the energies, he remains silent because the only thing he can do now is escaping in his own mind, in a remote and protected room, secure, in his mind palace, where there's just the 221b of Baker Street and the hands are John's, the skin is John's, and so the smell and his eyes, and the cold floor is just the carpet of their living room and the pain he feels is caused by a fall from a roof. Nothing else, just John. Just what matters. The only thing that matters.  
Always, as always.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._

  
He doesn't stay silent now. He just screams when he feels someone grabbing his legs and dragging him back. He doesn't see, eyes are closed and black, crushed by the weight of the beating, but even if they weren't he would close them anyway.  
He screams because they can take everything away from him, everything but that, everything but John. And the man who's working his way between his legs is not John, and it's anger that Sherlock feels inside, because it should have been John and no one else, ever. He waited thirty-five years for that, and he cannot allow anyone to take it away from him. Taking away what has always been destined to and John only, the only one Sherlock has ever desired to touch, the only one whose body Sherlock hasn't been afraid of. The only one he has ever desired because it would have been so bloody right.

But what it should be doesn't happen. What happens is something else, and it isn't right. It's anything but right. It's just pain and every other bad thing that there is in the world. Sherlock cries because he cannot scream anymore, a hand closing his mouth and it isn't John's. It's never John's.  
He cries because he didn’t have the time or the opportunity to tell him.  
To ask him to take him, to see his blue eyes raising for the surprise and -Sherlock hopes- shining of joy. He didn’t have the time. And he won't anymore.  
Because what could he possibly tell him now, now that this man is pushing himself hard and insistent inside his body, his strong hands on his thighs, forcing him to widen them, moans pouring on his back and a hollow ache when the man violates him, taking something that was not supposed to belong to him. But he does, regardless, and he opens him with violence, pushing hard, with arrogance, uncaring of Sherlock’s gasps, of his moans, of his pain. How could he tell John, now? He can't, he won't. If he ever gets out.  
Sherlock stops crying when he feels something dripping between his thighs and the man retracting. Maybe it's sperm, maybe it's blood, maybe both things and he really doesn't want to know. He just wants him to stop, he just hopes that no one else takes the place of the man that has gone away, he hopes that know they’ll let him sleep, let him die, let him choke.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._

  
Obviously, they don't. Someone vile and disgusting comes in every couple of hours. Sometimes Sherlock wakes up and offers himself to whoever arrives, trying to get them off quickly so that it doesn’t last long. Sometimes he tries not to stop sleeping. He knows he can’t just keep screaming and crying.  He sleeps, he wakes up, then he goes back to sleep. Keeping track of the days is impossible, but he feels like being stuck in a painful and cruel routine.  He loses himself, awareness of its surroundings and of what’s happening to him.  
John's eyes begin to fade in his mind and he tries desperately to prevent it, to get hold of them, to remember. But it's like trying to retain water on fingers, and John flows away, like everything else in his life. There is only darkness, and pain.  
And there is a voice, his voice, in that remote corner of his mind palace where he's still able to listen.  
There are good days and bad days.  
The good ones it hurts a bit less, and Sherlock just sleeps. The bad ones, he can't hold tears and he invocates his voice.  _“_ _Amazing”_ , John always says.  _“_ _Amazing.”_  
Sherlock likes his voice, he's almost able to forget where he's, to feel a bit at home.  
  
“ _There were times that I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human…. human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so… there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there’s just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be… dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this.”_  
  
Sherlock remembers that day very well. He often thinks about it, when he's not so tired that he still can. He likes how his name posed on John's lips, as if it was the only place in the world where his name was supposed to be.   
Everything of humanity that Sherlock still has , everything he’s got has been confined in his mind, together with those words, the only things that he would never let go.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._

  
When later they come, they are more cruel than usual. They must have received some news from Mycroft, and he’s probably not giving in to the ransom. Sherlock smiles for a moment: he's taking time, he's searching for him. He's out there, somewhere. With John. John who's searching for him. John who's not leaving him.  
There's still hope. There's still a world out there, maybe.  
It's for this reason, for this feeble sunshine that reaches him, that Sherlock says no: he tries not to get caught, he closes his legs as hard as he can, and talks for the first time in weeks.  
“No.”  
It's a strong negation, despite his raspy voice after weeks of silence. He just manages to make them angrier. One takes his hair, pulling it so hard that he screams, foreign fingers filling his mouth.  
  
“ _But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... human being I've ever known.”_  
  
John's voice seems to be the only thing that he can hold on to while they push him to the ground. They must have broken some ribs, even just the thought of breathing hurts as hell.  
  
“ _One more miracle, Sherlock, for me.”_  
  
The man who takes him is so big he feels torn apart, as if they wanted to break him, to destroy him.   
  
“ _Sherlock.”_  
  
And they do it, in the end. Sherlock manages to find enough energy and enough breath to talk again. He begs them. “Stop it.” He begs them again. “Please.” Each syllable a rattling. When they let him fall to the ground, he's still able to think that he can't do this to John. He can't die, not again. Not for real.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._

  
When he wakes up, someone is helping him to drink. Sherlock tries to focus on the unknown face in front of him. He's a boy, but Sherlock's reflexes are so slow that he can’t really say anything else.  
He feels a mattress under his body. Filthy, but still better than the floor. The room where he’s kept is still the same, and so are the silence and the darkness.  
“Who are you?”  
“One of them.”  
“Why...” Sherlock coughs, interrupting his own words.  
“...am I not doing something bad to you? I don't like the things they do, most of them.”  
Sherlock nods, back to silence again. He doesn't want to take a breath and think about something useless, about something that is not going to change anything. Not the state of things, not his sorrow, not the hole in his chest, not his shortcomings.  
The boy stands up, he looks young, he must be very young. Sherlock wonders what he’s doing there, he wonders why he's asking himself these questions. Irrelevant, after all.  
He stops at the door, Sherlock knows because he’s listening, but he doesn't have the strength to open his eyes.  
“Sherlock?”

 Is this his name? Is this his name for real?  
“They are looking for you, they're close. I saw them.”  
Sherlock opens his eyes for a second, he's not sure about what he heard, he's not sure about what is true or not.  
He closes his eyes, there's still time.  
  
When they come back it's evening -or later, Sherlock presumes it's evening-, he's not afraid. He doesn't care, he doesn't care anymore. He managed to find where he hides John's eyes, in that corner of his mind palace. He hides them because he didn’t want to lose them, he didn’t want to forget.

  
He doesn't hear their laughter of ridicule, he barely feels the at this point, he doesn’t feel the blade of the knife engraving his skin, there on the breastbone, not the blood flowing. He’s just aware of the important things that he managed to keep secret. John's voice, for example.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._

  
The boy comes back to see how he's going. Sherlock has stopped wondering why.  
“Get me out of here” he just says. He takes his wrist, he holds it strongly. It's not a request.  
The other one stays silent. Shakes a bit, wondering if he didn’t go too far in trying to help this strange prisoner, reduced to the shadow of the man he once was.  
“I have to get out of here. I need to find him. I can't die again, do you understand?”  
“Die... again?”  
Sherlock nods, letting go of his wrist. Trying to gather his strength.  
The boy finally nods. “Later, you rest now” he says. And Sherlock does. He tries not to hope, but he’s starting to feel more alive than he’s ever been in the past weeks. Managing the pain it’s what he needs to do right now, he will have all the time to feel it later, but now it’s not the moment. It may be his last opportunity, and he can’t waste it.  
Victor, who tells him his name just before leaving, really helps him. He gets him out, for real. It's night, everywhere is dark and cold, they are probably in the countryside. Sherlock is barefoot -Victor gave him something to wear, but he couldn't do more-, he feels the grass tickling the soles of his feet and he almost cries. But he can't, not yet. There's going to be time, later.  
He sees some lights in the distance, through the trees. He isn't sure about what he sees, actually, but he wants to believe in it.  
“Here they are. I told you they were close.”  
Sherlock nods, moving some steps, he wobbles.  
“You must go now, before the others come back. Time is over, time is over!”  
And Sherlock begins to run, he runs towards those lights. He knows that it's just adrenaline, he's too weak to sustain that run for long. He has three minutes, maybe four. Not more.  
He doesn't turn to Victor, he knows that probably the boy will die because of him. They will kill him.  
He’ll think about it later, when he’ll let himself deal with the guilt, now he just has to run.  
His legs are starting to feel dumb, ready to give up, and there’s blood flowing under his feet. He must have cut himself, but it doesn't matter.  
“John!” he screams, hoping they will hear him. He sees the lights moving, coming closer. The noise of a helicopter, somewhere.  
He falls, tripping, and suddenly it’s impossible to get up again. He drags himself on, breathless, dirt and grass on his face. But time is over. And he can't take it anymore.  
“John...” he whispers.  
And then he sees him, and it must be a dream or something similar, but maybe it's just real: those blue eyes. His blue eyes.  
He is grabbed and lifted, he's so light it shouldn't be difficult. He feels other men around him, getting closer -to help, he presumes in a brief moment of rationality, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want them to touch him.  
“No” growls John. John understands, John always understands, he pulls him to his chest and Sherlock holds on to him without having the slightest intention of letting him go, fingers tight to the cloth of his jacket.  
“John, I have to tell you...”  
“Sssh, there's time, Sherlock. Rest.”  
And the world becomes dark. And this time, it is alright.

  
  
He will tell him, one day.  
_But not today._


	2. Flames

# Flames

### Part two

 

“I won't leave him in a hospital, Mycroft, I haven't even given it a thought. We're going to stay here, at Baker Street.”  
“You can’t do it, John. You can’t manage him”

“And are you?” John's voice is hard, Sherlock feels it even before hearing him, even before seeing him. And then he opens his eyes.

John is in front of the window, arms folded. He looks tired, terribly tired.

“John...” he calls, with a feeble voice. Everything hurts and his senses are muffled, but when John comes close to him and looks at him, he thinks he could drown in those eyes and die happily a million times, it doesn't matter the pain he feels in his body.

 

_He will tell him, one day._

_But not today._

 

Sherlock sleeps a lot, barely talks, he listens to John who never leaves him alone. They're permanently back at Baker Street, now, as John keeps telling him this every time he feels lost. “We're home, it's alright, you're safe.” The very first days there was a female doctor there to stitch him. Sherlock remembered vaguely, he just distinctly noticed that John wasn’t the one taking care of his wounds. He doesn't want that John looks at him, not before he had the possibility to see his own body, see the damages with his own eyes, without having to imagine and draw deductions based on the pain he feels.

Mycroft told him he's going to be fine very soon, that the injuries are not so relevant, and he's just deadly tired, and Sherlock trusts him. For this kind of things, he trusts him.

He’s aware of the fact that his brother knows what happened. Knows more than John, at least, and he knows that he's not going to tell anything. Sherlock is grateful.

 

_He will tell him, one day._

_But not today._

 

“Stay” Sherlock asks one evening. He’s cold and so tired, even if he just got up. He opened his eyes and panic took him, his breathing speed up and cold sweat started to drip on his forehead. He called John. “I've all the symptoms of a panic attack” he says, and it's so incredibly like Sherlock saying such a thing, with the usual rationality, that John can do nothing but smile and breath with him.

“Stay”, he asks again. “I'm cold”, he says then, as a sort of an excuse, as if he needed an excuse to ask John to stay with him. And it's actually just what he needs, because he isn’t anywhere near to telling him. Not yet, not yet.

And John stays. He undresses, remaining in pants and t-shirt, and holds him under the sheet, chest against back and Sherlock feels so good, feels some heat, for the first time in weeks. With John in his life, waiting for the morning every day would be worth it.

 

_He will tell him, one day._

_But not today._

 

John wakes up with the usual morning erection pulled against something incredibly soft. He squints his eyes, a bit confused, and realises that he's still entangled with Sherlock, who pulled John against him.

He laughs, realizing where he is. “I don't know if I should be ashamed or not, sorry, Sherlock” he says. His voice is warm and sincere. He's not ashamed, not for real, he just thinks that this has never happened to him before. To have Sherlock in his bed, he means.

“Sherlock?” he calls again. Maybe he's sleeping, he thinks, maybe he's just so tired. Then he realizes that something's wrong.  He feels the body against him becoming incredibly still, Sherlock breath increasing, his hands shaking. “Oh shit, Sherlock!”

John moves a bit, lifts him up, moves his curls off his forehead and sees the terror in his eyes.

“What's the problem? I did something...”

Then, he understands. Stupid John, stupid, slow, trusting John.  

John understands, and he’s horrified. Sherlock sees him, he can see all the disgust and the anger. Somewhere inside, Sherlock knows that it’s not John’s fault, but maybe John is just another man and he wants to take him, he wants to hurt him. And he should let him, because it’s John and John’s safe, John’s good and Sherlock doesn’t want him to leave, and he just wants the pain to stop and..  

John looks shocked at Sherlock and he feels like he’s dying. He moves from him and gets dressed, quickly, as fast as he can, and he cowers on the floor, near the mattress. He would like to take Sherlock’s hands, but he doesn't dare touch. He would hold him but he can't, not now. 

“Sherlock” he calls. No answer.

“Sherlock.” Silence.

“I don't want to hurt you, I don't want to do anything you don't like. I'm sorry, really, I'm sorry.  I didn't know, I haven't thought...” John is crying now, he's crying and maybe are his tears that drags Sherlock back into reality, calming him down, his breath slowly returning to normal.

“I will never hurt you. Never.”

They stay in silent for a bit, John sitting on the floor, Sherlock still under the blanket.

Sherlock realises how much he missed the man in front of him, who doesn't get closer because he's afraid of hurting him, again, but how could John possibly hurt him? John who, is the only reason if he's still alive. Sherlock feels so stupid, how could he react like this, and for something so natural?

“It had to be you, John” he says in the end, eyes down. He feels John's gaze get up on his face, but he can't watch him. “I wanted it to be you.”

“Sherlock.”

“I'm not broken, John.”

“No, you're not.”

_You are the best man and the most human being that I have ever known._

 

_He will tell him, one day._

_But not today._

 

The first time John convinces Sherlock to have a bath, it's also the first time Sherlock can see himself in the mirror, and he sees the cuts on his chest. There are red, gnarly scars on his pale skin.

John sees him. He reads the word  _freak_ engraved with blood on his friend’s skin. He sees Sherlock's lips trembling, while he feels so much anger inside that he wants to scream. Against Mycroft, against those bloody monsters, against anyone that ever hurt Sherlock during his entire life, because this is not fair.

Sherlock knows it, and John does too.

John approaches him carefully, breathing slowly while he takes his own towel away and throws it on the floor. Sherlock looks at him without understanding, but he let him take his hand. John takes it, shaking a bit, and he puts it on his skin. He leaves it there, where the Afghan bullet cut through his shoulder. That’s the same scar that allowed them to meet, and maybe all the pain and the sorrow sometimes can be worth it.

Sherlock moves slowly his fingertips on the raised skin, his breath almost imperceptible.

“It's better now.” John's voice is terribly close, and it isn't a question.

Sherlock nods.

 

_He will tell him, one day._

_But not today._

 

There are a lot of first times, after that one: the first time Sherlock gets up and makes tea for him and for John, and John smiles so much because he has never done it, not even before, and Sherlock thinks that his smile is the best thing ever happened to him. Almost like a nine-point case, you know; the first time Lestrade comes to visit and Sherlock calls him  _Greg_. Then probably he notices it, so he starts calling him Gavin, Gary, Gawain and they just look the other way. But that  _Greg,_ everyone heard it; the first time Mycroft appears in their living room and Sherlock gives him a half smile, John doesn't notice because he’s still too angry, and the eldest Holmes pretends not to care.

 

“Can I touch you?”

The first time Sherlock asks him, John trembles. He's not sure about what Sherlock wants, he's not sure about anything.

“Can I, John?”

“You can do anything you want.”  
Sherlock takes his time, he always does. He likes John's chest, he likes to linger for a long time with his fingers on his neck, on his scar, brushing up his own scar as well and feeling them close. He knows he's not ready, not for  _everything_ , not for what they took away.

But there's John with him, there are his blue eyes, there's safety and after all, Sherlock thinks he might be ready for anything.

John always touches him gently, he always looks him in the eyes.

“It's me, it's me, it's all alright.”

He has the extraordinary ability to bring him back when his thoughts kidnap him, and his mind takes him away. Sometimes it’s because of a similar touch, sometimes because of a sudden pain.

It takes some time before Sherlock understands that John's touch is like nothing he’s ever experienced, nothing similar, it's just  _different._

John's lips on his skin: another thing Sherlock likes, even if he never understands entirely.

But, for one time, it is fine.

He has his back on the mattress, and John is always careful not to turn him and to look him in the eyes.

“Are you sure?” John often asks. Sherlock's answer is always yes.

“If you tell me to stop, I'll stop.”

“Don't stop, John.”

And John doesn't stop, his tongue caresses slowly his lover’s jaw, he barely touches his lips. He walks down his scar letter by letter and tries to make Sherlock realise that he is the best and the most extraordinary man John's ever known, that he ever had the chance of meeting.

When John reaches his crotch, Sherlock feels himself loosening up. He feels a huge heat all around him while the doctor goes along all his length, wrapping the top, tasting him and kissing his thighs and his flat stomach.

“You're...” he tries to say, but then he stops. He can't hold a moan. He knows he doesn’t have to do it anymore, he doesn't need to hold or hide anything, for any reason, ever again.

“It's alright.”

John repeats it, his hands are hot and skilled, Sherlock's breath is a flow, a sigh.

“Wait” he says all of a sudden. And John stops, John always stops if Sherlock asks him.

And Sherlock moves, realising that John’s afraid of having done something wrong.

“It's alright”, and it's so unusual to hear it from him that they both smile.

John lies down, Sherlock on him. He kisses the top of his nose, eyes on him. Ice meeting the ocean.

“I could drown in it” he whispers, and John isn't sure of what he said but then their excitements meet and the words on his lips just fly away.

“John...” Sherlock whispers, taking their pleasures and moving them together, holding them with his hand, with delicacy.

“Mmmmh...”

“John.”

“Sh-Sherlock.”

A thrust stronger than the others and John leans his head back, against the pillow.

“There's something I should say, John.”

“W-what...?”

A whisper, Sherlock moans, John moans louder, another gasp.

“It's always you, John. It will always be you. You're everything of human I have, everything I've always wanted.”

The words get lost in an orgasm that hits them both and ends with a scream. John knows who Sherlock really is, and he keeps the secret deep down, hidden in his soul. It could not be otherwise.

They breathe together, the one on the other, as if they were one, caught in the storm of what they're feeling, of unspoken words and years spent without touching, of fear and sorrow.

Of being together, now, of being. Simply of being.

There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. And that's scary, Sherlock knows, John knows. *

It will take days, it will take a lot of words, it will take all John’s patience and all Sherlock’s resources will be needed.

It will pass. It will change.

“We've got time, Sherlock. We've got all the time of the world.”

Time for another miracle.

 

 

_One day, maybe._

_Maybe now._

 

 


End file.
